


Not The Most Luminous Of People (But)

by chasing_the_sterek



Series: Inktober 2017 [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, LET'S SAY THIS ONE IS FULLY GAY OK RIGHT FINE, Mild Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-deprecating humour, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Smart John, god it feels so good to use that tag, objection to said self-deprecating humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 18:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13324254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_the_sterek/pseuds/chasing_the_sterek
Summary: "You look like you broke your own brain," Sherlock accuses. John suddenly realises he's been locked in a staring contest with him for God-knows how long."Oh, um -""Two minutes and forty-seven point nine seconds," Sherlock supplies.///John goes on a mental tangent.





	Not The Most Luminous Of People (But)

**Author's Note:**

> Not-today's prompt was "shatter/soft"
> 
> I kept getting distracted trying to get this fill done so I said fuck it and wrote this instead
> 
> Oh well
> 
> Title quote from ACD canon! I paraphrased for brevity but here it is in full:
> 
> _"You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable."_

It never ceases to amaze him how contradictive the English language is. 

John stares at the book in his hand. This book is full of pages, and chapters. In each chapter, there will be many, many paragraphs, and in each paragraph there are words. Some of these paragraphs may repeat, if it is that rare sort of book that can get away with it without making you blink at the page on confusion and some odd sort of alarm. The words within a paragraph will repeat, definitely; a snippet of one of Sherlock's beekeeping books will most likely mention the focus of its subject several times within a single sentence. Even in this one, the paragraph John is creating as he thinks, he has probably thought the word _paragraph_ five or six times already. 

John slips away from the enticing pull of a looming tangent and marvels at how many layers this language of his has. Books and chapters and pages and paragraphs and sentences and words, and repeats of all and any. And then things can shatter even further: words become syllables, letters, phonetics, phonemes. John is almost positive that there will be a word for the different lines found as you look at the way a letter is shaped, as well, but he doesn't know any of them, or what the umbrella term is. 

Amazing. 

"You look like you broke your own brain," Sherlock accuses. John suddenly realises he's been locked in a staring contest with him for God-knows how long. 

"Oh, um -" 

"Two minutes and forty-seven point nine seconds," Sherlock supplies. _Witchcraft,_ John thinks, but Sherlock has already started speaking again. "What were you thinking about?" 

"Um, words?" 

Sherlock looks summarily disappointed. "Dull. I almost thought you'd solved the case." 

John snorts. "Hardly. I'm no Holmes, as you've told me at great length." He puts down the book he wasn't reading and gets up, ignoring the twinge of complaint in his shoulder. "Tea?" 

Sherlock is watching him, suddenly, intense and unblinking. 

"Tea?" John prods. 

Nothing. He sighs, far too used to this kind of thing, and goes to pick up the dreg-filled mug by Sherlock's hand. And then, as he turns to leave - said hand closes around his arm, just this side of too tight. 

"Sherlock, what -" 

"John Watson," Sherlock says, eyes solemn and gaze unbreakable, "your intelligence and skills are lost upon the heaving masses, much to their detriment. Do not compare yourself to me and become downtrodden. Compared to the general public, you were a Holmes by the time you finished moving in." 

John gapes at him. Such an avalanche of sentiment is supposed to be incapacitating to Sherlock, not _him._

He tries to say thank you, but an "Uhm," that is five octaves too high is all that comes out. 

Amusement twinkles in Sherlock's eyes, but somehow he's not finished yet. "Compared to a Holmes. . . well, you're getting there." 

He gets up, then; leaves John there, frozen and staring, shocked, at the wall. 

"I'll make the tea," Sherlock says, and there is a smile everywhere you look in his voice.


End file.
